


songs about things we all know

by thingsyoumissed (orphan_account)



Category: The Cab
Genre: Fivesome, Group Marriage, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thingsyoumissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically GSF snuggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	songs about things we all know

Sometimes Cash thinks that the only reason anyone strives for anything in this town is because they want to get out of Las Vegas. He knows he's not the only one with the burn in his shoulders, at the base of his neck. It flares hot enough, stays lit long enough to make him push that CD into Spencer's hand, his heart pounding wildly, and the flame doesn't go out all through signing and recording, losing and gaining, his life for weeks nothing but hellos and goodbyes, music and sleep and music and sleep and music.

Somewhere in there, Cash falls in love with his band, his three Alexes and an Ian, each all their own shapes that fit his puzzle regardless. It sounds good in his head but he'd never say it out loud, because there are some things that just aren't the same when they're spoken. So he tries his best, silently, to convey just how fierce his joy is that they're all part of his life. That they want it as badly as he does, this making it on nothing but what they can create together.

Cash lets his band become his new burn, but the pieces don't shake into place until it almost all falls apart.

In the hospital, he holds Marshall's hand while the nurse bandages his face, even though Cash has been instructed to move as little as possible. He rubs his thumb over Marshall's palm, counts Marshall's breaths, and steadfastly does not think about what could have been. 

In the hotel room, he helps Singer wash his hair, even though they're both fucked up. It's a weird angle over the tub, but the water stays hot, and just as they're having trouble rinsing out all the shampoo, Ian comes in and fixes the spray for them without a word. _Thanks_ , Cash mouths, catching water with a towel where it's running the wrong way down Singer's back, and Ian stays to help, three sets of hands better than two, but Cash is still exhausted by the time they all limp out to the beds.

Under the covers, Johnson reaches behind to pull Cash close, making him curve along his back. Marshall's on Cash's other side, one of his hands outstretched to touch both of them. There's a sudden harsh pain in his throat, and Cash opens his mouth soundlessly against Johnson's shoulder. "You okay?" Johnson asks.

Cash swallows. "Yeah, just..."

"I know."

It strikes like a match, a harsh scrape and then flame, the sharp bite of sulfur. Cash pushes it down. It's too much right now, and he hurts from all of it.

They limp through shows on borrowed equipment, the shouts and screams of the audience a balm to all their wounds, and Cash feels like he's sucking up the energy more than ever before, hoarding it, packing it into every cell of his body like there might be a day when he needs it and there's no one around to sing along. Backstage, they stand in a huddle, hands on each other's arms or in each other's pockets, until the rush fades enough for them to go out into the crowd, hang out with the fans.

More often than not, he falls asleep in their mostly new van with someone else tucked up against him. Usually it's Marshall, with his hood pulled almost all the way over his face, but sometimes it's Ian, who sleeps like the dead even when the rest of them can't, and once it's Singer, who is completely in Cash's lap when they wake up, and who flushes bright red and slides away mumbling "sorry". 

Cash isn't sorry. He wants to catch Singer around the waist and not let him move, but he doesn't.

He starts to feel like this is a secret only he knows, one of those secrets the other guys keep stepping on and backing away from immediately . But he doesn't know how to bring it up, because he can't even explain it to himself, can barely comprehend that he's watching Ian's hands and wondering what they'd feel like on his skin; looking at Johnson's thighs and wanting to be pressed between them and some flat surface; skimming his gaze over Singer's mouth so close to the mic, suddenly dry-tongued at the thought of having his own mouth or neck or _holy fuck_ his dick that close to Singer's lips.

And Marshall, _god_ , Cash really can't think about the things he might want to do with Marshall and still manage to look him in the eye, so he resolutely does not think about them, and lets Marshall cuddle close in the van or in hotel rooms while thinking about starving babies and roadkill and the really sad parts of _Saving Private Ryan_. 

He wonders exactly when it got like this. It's not like he stops finding girls hot, or stops wanting to fuck them, it's just that he suddenly starts wanting his band, too. He doesn't buy Lance Bass' autobiography at the next bookstore they pass, or start watching _Queer Eye_ reruns. He doesn't think he's gay.

Other than for his band.

It threatens to drown him in Texas, when he wakes up tangled in both Johnson and Marshall because that's how they always end up sharing, their legs wound through his, and Cash smushes his face to the pillow because he's so hard, and there's no good way to get out of the bed without one of them noticing. He jumps when Marshall turns his head, his breath ghosting hot over Cash's ear. "It's okay," Marshall whispers.

Cash knows that logically, the best thing in this situation would be for Marshall to let him get up so he can go into the bathroom and take care of this problem. But Marshall doesn't let go of him, and he can tell Johnson is awake now, too. He breathes into the pillow, refusing to move. They shift, curl around him more, and a choked gasp is escaping him before he can hold it back. "No, don't," he mumbles.

Johnson makes an odd noise and Cash refuses to let himself interpret it as disappointed. Then there's fingers stroking the back of his neck, and seriously, he's going to cry. It's too much. "Fine, if that's what you want," Johnson says, his voice scratchy with sleep, "but fuck, dude, you're not the only one."

Without giving it any more thought, Cash climbs over Marshall (soft-sleepy-warm) and runs to lock himself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. 

By the time they get to Florida, he's given up hope of swimming through this. Johnson keeps trying to get him alone and Cash always manages to duck away, constantly afraid that if he gives in, everything will be fucked up beyond repair. Singer and Ian give him knowing looks, their mouths curving into half-smiles, and when Cash walks in on them kissing in Pensacola he is absolutely, positively certain that they're doing it just for his benefit. He backs out of the room almost immediately, goes back down the hall and finds Marshall, who continues to curl into him at every opportunity, and he does it again now, pulling Cash down to cram into the chair with him right in the hotel lobby. 

"What's up?" Marshall asks lazily, pulling his earbuds from his ears. 

Cash tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. "Singer and Ian are making out in our room."

"Hmm." Marshall doesn't sound too surprised, and Cash glances at him. Marshall's grinning. "You're such a fuck, Cash."

"What?" Cash exclaims, looking at him for real now. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, well, I keep trying, but you're being lame," Marshall huffs, and Cash freezes. "See, and now you're all tense again, you _moron_."

"I- _what_?"

Marshall leans in close, puts his mouth right to Cash's ear. "I said, you're a _moron_."

Cash is torn between a shiver and a frown. "Why am I a moron?"

"We're not blind, stupid. You _want_ , but you won't _take_." 

All Cash can think is that he doesn't want to be having this conversation in the lobby of a hotel he doesn't even know the name of, and Marshall must be thinking the same thing, because he stands up suddenly, yanking Cash up with him, and forces him back down the hall to their room. Where Singer and Ian are still making out, and Johnson is sitting on the opposite bed, watching them. Cash swallows through his suddenly dry mouth, and he'd open it to say something, but now Marshall is shoving him down onto the bed and Cash thinks wildly that he's never seen Marshall like this before. Everyone else is staring at them as Marshall climbs on top of him, his hands pressing into Cash's shoulders, and Cash manages to lick his lips quickly before Marshall is kissing him. "It's about fucking time," he hears Johnson say, and then the bed is dipping even more, but Cash can barely comprehend any of it through the urgency of Marshall's kiss. It's warm and Marshall's tongue is slipping against his, and someone else's hands are on his waist. The burn is spreading from his shoulder blades through his whole body. There's too many people on the bed now, he can feel the movement, and it's like a thunderstorm is starting in his head.

Marshall leans back, his eyes dark, and that's where Cash looks, because at this second it's what's anchoring him to the here and now. "Okay?" Marshall asks. Cash nods. "You're not going to freak out on us again?"

"No promises," Cash breathes, finally able to look away from Marshall's face, needing to know where everyone else is. Singer and Ian are on one side, tangled together, looking back at him, and Johnson is on the other, one leg thrown over Cash's. "But I'll give it a shot."

He reaches out. They reach back, and this time he doesn't try to hide it.


End file.
